


Aggravate

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Biting, Blood, Blood Kink, Choking, Death Threats, Established Relationship, Hair-pulling, Illusions, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rope Bondage, Stabbing, Teasing, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-03 13:12:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4102264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The rope is too thin, Bel can see it is, it’s cutting red lines in against Fran’s skinny ankles, but he twists it tighter anyway, digs the knots in hard against the pale skin like the application of force will somehow guarantee Fran’s actual presence in the room." Bel tries to restrain Fran and finds it something of a challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aggravate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glueskin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glueskin/gifts).



“Bel-senpai.”

“Shut up,” Bel says from the bottom of the bed. The rope is too thin, he can see it is, it’s cutting red lines in against Fran’s skinny ankles, but he twists it tighter anyway, digs the knots in hard against the pale skin like the application of force will somehow guarantee Fran’s actual presence in the room. “I’ll gag you if you keep talking.”

“Aww,” Fran says, drawling the sound past the point of sincerity and into something flat with mockery. “Senpai, you’re losing your touch.”

“What the fuck are you--” Bel starts, looking up the bed, but Fran’s not lying where he was a moment ago. He’s sitting up, instead, gaze steady and mouth relaxed and hands free, which ought to be impossible given the length of rope Bel already used at the head of the bed to bind him in place.

The laugh that tears out of his throat is sharp and uncontrolled, biting like glass over his tongue and catching involuntarily in his chest. “You used illusions on me,” he says, the statement needless when Fran is blinking at him and  _obviously_  not where he’s supposed to be, where Bel has been trying to keep him for the last several minutes. He drops his hold on the trailing ends of the rope wound around Fran’s ankles, snaps his hand out to seize hard at Fran’s throat instead. “You  _know_  what I say about using illusions on  _me_.”

“Never do it,” Fran says, reciting the words back with all the flat carelessness of rote. “But senpai, you’ll hurt me if I don’t.”

“I’ll hurt you worse if you do,” Bel purrs, the words slipping into liquid threat in his throat. Fran just blinks at him, patently unconcerned even when Bel shoves him back by his too-tight hold, presses hard enough that his fingertips bite bruises into pale skin. His heart is beating faster in his chest, his blood starting to flicker into fire like it does, sometimes, when his control gives way and there’s just the anxious need for destruction moving his hands for him. When his fingers flex it’s not at his own discretion, the motion involuntary and instinctive and the pressure enough that it breaks Fran’s whined “Bel-senpai” into something high and breathless instead of its usual monotone.

“You made me waste my time,” Bel says, his mouth dragging itself into a smile that feels feral even from the inside. “Give me your hand.”

“What are you going to do?” Fran asks, his voice still as level as it reasonably can be with Bel’s weight bearing down at his throat.

“Give me your hand,” Bel says again without answering, and Fran does, offers slender fingers and the fragile bones in his palm to Bel’s overtight hold. Bel sets his grip in against Fran’s skin, squeezes tight enough that he can feel the grate of bone-on-bone as he shoves the other’s hand flat on the bed, as Fran whines “Ouch” with remarkable clarity under the circumstances.

“Stupid frog,” Bel hisses, lets his bruising grip on Fran’s throat go so he can reach around to the back of his pants. There are fewer places for his knives, with his shirt and jacket absent, but he’s still got a few tucked in against the line of his belt, can retrieve one one-handed with the efficient precision of his experience and genius together. “I told you not to use illusions on me.”

“Ah,” Fran says as he blinks into focus on the shine of the knife pinned between Bel’s fingertips. “You’ll damage the bed again, senpai.”

“Shut up,” Bel hisses, swings the knife around overhead to drive through the center of Fran’s outstretched palm. There’s a catch of resistance, bone grating against razor-edged metal, but he’s expecting that, is shoving hard to slice through skin and muscle both, to sink the end of the knife an inch deep into the mattress. The fabric tears audibly at the impact, the soft of the bed giving way far more easily than Fran’s palm, and Bel is baring his teeth in satisfaction as Fran tips his head sideways to consider the handle of the knife buried in his hand, to flex his fingers consideringly against the restraint.

“Ahh,” he drawls, twisting sideways and starting to reach over for the knife. “We’ll need new sheets now.”

“Fuck you,” Bel says, lets his hold on Fran’s wrist go so he can catch the reaching fingers and shove them down to the other side. There’s no real anger in the words, just the hiss of satisfaction, the fire in his blood blossoming into crimson heat that drags the corners of his mouth up into an uncontrolled grin. Fran doesn’t try to resist the second knife anymore than he did the first; he just turns his head, watches the blade pierce through his palm, sighs an exhale of resignation as the edge slices through the rumpled fabric and mattress underneath him.

“I can’t move now, Bel-senpai,” he observes, turning his head up to track Bel as the other rocks back, considers the asymmetrical angles Fran’s limbs are making against the sheets. There’s still no concern in the other’s eyes, even with his pulse bracketed by the bruises left by Bel’s fingers on his throat; Bel’s not sure if it’s more irritation or desire that floods into his veins, doesn’t bother particularly with clarifying the distinction. He laughs, now, the sound hissing hard against the back of his teeth, reaches down to fish the last of his knives out of his belt and toss it aside so he can pull his belt free of its buckle.

“That’s the idea,” Bel says as his zipper comes open, freeing him of the pressure of the fabric caught taut over his hips. He kicks himself free, shakes his hair back from his face and tips his head to the side. “Frightened yet?”

“Sure,” Fran says, every note of the sound screaming boredom more than fright. “You’re very scary, senpai.”

“Shut up,” Bel hisses, lunges in to cast Fran into his shadow again. The movement rocks the mattress, must pull pain against the knives stuck through Fran’s hands, but the other doesn’t so much as flinch, barely blinks at the sudden movement over him. “Maybe I’ll just kill you this time.”

“You say that every time, senpai,” Fran observes. “Threats don’t work as well when you don’t follow through on them.”

“This is why I tell you to not use illusions on me,” Bel snaps. “If you didn’t I would have killed you ages ago.”

“That’s not a very convincing argument for me to stop,” Fran points out.

“Shut up,” Bel says again, the words tasting familiar and well-worn on his tongue. “I thought you liked this too?”

“Sure,” Fran says, but there’s no heat in his eyes, nothing but the cool consideration that is always there. “This is fun.”

“Damn it,” Bel spits, reaches out to shove his fingers against the flat line of Fran’s mouth. “Fuck you, stupid frog.” Fran opens his mouth, obedient to the pressure if not to Bel’s spoken commands, and at least he doesn’t need to be told what to do; he licks against Bel’s fingertips, slicking saliva up across the other’s knuckles as Bel steadies his weight over his knees, replaces his fingers against Fran’s throat so he can feel the movement of the other swallowing as Bel shoves his fingers in farther into the heat of his mouth. This is warm, at least, hot enough to match at least some of the lust in Bel’s blood, until he’s not thinking at all, until the rhythmic thrust of his fingers into Fran’s mouth is unconscious, chasing heat farther and farther back until his fingertips catch the back of Fran’s throat and the pattern shatters into a reflexive, choked cough in the other’s throat.

“Senpai,” Fran manages as Bel drags his hand free with a hissed curse, reaches to fit his fingers between Fran’s spread-wide knees. “Please be careful, that hurt.”

“Stupid,” Bel comments, splays his free hand against Fran’s chest to pin him in place, to feel the flutter of a heartbeat realistic enough that at least he is convinced. “It’s  _supposed_  to hurt.”

“Ah,” Fran observes, sounding only a little bit hoarse. Bel slides his slick fingers down, catches fingertips against the other’s entrance, but Fran doesn’t react in word or body, just gazes at him and declares, “In that case you’re doing well, please continue.”

“I hate you,” Bel says, the words as calm past the bared white of his teeth as Fran’s, and shoves hard against the other. Fran makes a brief noise, a cut-off sound of reaction, but Bel’s not really listening; it’s easier to get reaction from his sense of touch than his eyes or ears, easier to place Fran’s response with the heat of the other tensing around his fingers than to try to parse it from a blank gaze and calm tone. Fran’s expression is still steady, his voice still level, but there’s maybe-a-tremor in his thighs, a heat too strong to possibly be illusion bleeding hot into Bel’s touch. Bel leans in harder, pushes in deeper, and there’s a flicker of eyelashes, this time, pale eyes shadowing behind a blink that is still not enough, for all that it’s the start of victory. Everything is still too pale, Fran’s skin nearly as white as the sheets under them, and it’s then that Bel realizes what’s wrong.

“Oh  _fuck_  you,” he spits, the words jumping high with anger in his throat. “Where’s the blood?”

“Hm,” Fran says with no trace of concern in his throat as Bel thrusts in as deep as he can reach, twists his fingers to earn another tremor from the inside line of the other’s thighs. “It took you longer to notice than I thought it would.”

“I’m going to murder you,” Bel says, each word hissing with sincerity as he draws his hand back to thrust back in. He must have changed his angle a little, or maybe it’s the force that does it; Fran’s eyes go fractionally wider, his breathing goes barely out-of-rhythm, and Bel’s smile cracks open, desire for blood and friction and heat all together in his veins.

“Sorry,” Fran drawls as Bel slides his fingers free, licks wet over his palm so he can stroke up over the ache in his cock. “Did you want more blood?” There’s a spill of crimson, red puddling in Fran’s open palms and staining the sheets under him, catching the lines of his shoulders to form the print of makeshift wings across the mattress. “Is that better?”

“You’re mocking me,” Bel says, all his teeth bared in an expression as much grimace as amusement. He shoves Fran’s leg wide, pushes his knee in under the other’s to brace himself, and he  _knows_  now Fran’s hands are loose but the other makes no move to grab at him, to hold him off or pull him in either one. Bel’s left free, able to lean back in unresisted and thrumming with irritation, and when he presses against Fran’s spit-slick entrance he doesn’t bother with teasing slowness. It’s a fast motion instead, clean and quick as a knife through skin, and then Fran’s tensing around him and huffing wordless reaction under him. There’s blood everywhere, now, seeping into the mattress and catching tacky against Fran’s pale hair, and it would be perfect if it were real, if Bel didn’t know completely it were an illusion.

“Stop it,” he demands, reaches up to fist his fingers into the spreading dark at Fran’s hair. “It doesn’t count if it’s not real.”

“But senpai--” Fran starts, and Bel yanks at the handful of hair between his fingers. There’s a weird sound from the other’s throat -- something between a whimper and a moan -- and the red is gone between two heartbeats, vanished along with Fran’s spread-wide hands. Instead they’re coming up from where they’ve been pressed at his sides, fingers clutching desperately at Bel’s wrist, and Fran’s tilting sideways, gasping for air like all the heat in him has caught him all at once.

“ _Ah_ ,” and it’s still Fran’s voice, still that low familiar tone, but it’s gone hot, skidding open on the sound in a way that stills the motion of Bel’s hips. “ _Senpai_.”

“What,” Bel says, his throat tightening into the high range of startled delight. “ _This_  gets to you?” He drags again and Fran jerks, his eyes going wide and mouth going open on a whine. It’s bizarre to see him collapsing so completely, like he’s turned abruptly human under the drag of Bel’s fingers. The illusory blood is gone, the knives still in the mattress pinning down nothing but the sheets, but Fran is still underneath Bel, his bruised throat working over a weird high note of sound. When Bel tips his hips forward to thrust in farther Fran catches a breath, air that just blows out of his lungs again when Bel tugs experimentally against his hair.

Bel doesn’t realize he’s laughing until he hears the echo coming off the walls, the scratching catch of air in his throat bounced back for him to hear like it’s emanating from another source entirely. His blood fires hot, tightens his fingers into a tangled fist, and when he draws back to thrust forward it’s in time with another jerk, the tug tipping Fran’s head back and spilling a broken noise up his throat in lieu of his usual monotone. There are fingers digging into Bel’s wrist, a hold gone more desperate than Bel has ever felt from the other before, and Bel doesn’t have to look down to know how hard Fran is, the vague almost-interest of before turned into a high arch in his spine and trembling tension in his legs. The rope is still holding, though, that portion of the restraint real enough to linger in the absence of Fran’s attention, and Bel doesn’t let up, drags to tip Fran’s head sideways and leans in close to bite against the open-mouthed gasp at the other’s lips. He can taste the choke in Fran’s breathing, the tension holding his inhales in his chest, and he’s laughing again, uncontrollable sound in his throat until he bites down to drown the amusement in the burn of blood across his tongue. Fran whimpers, his fingers twisting into bruises at Bel’s wrist; Bel jerks sharp, tries to pull away from the hurt, and Fran groans a low note of shock. It’s telltale, even if Bel has to struggle to parse it, even if he’s only piecing it together as Fran arches impossibly far off the bed. They’re pressed together for a moment, skin-to-skin, fingers tangled into hair and digging against wrist; then Fran collapses back to the bed, gasping shaky inhales as he comes over the faint flush spanning his chest.

“Stupid frog,” Bel manages, cutting the words out from between the manic laughter still tight in his throat. He can’t breathe right, his skin is burning hot as he moves, and he’s not letting go, is still tugging against Fran’s hair to draw little quivering aftershocks through the other’s body. Fran’s eyes are dark for the first time Bel can remember, out-of-focus and hazy like he’s seeing nothing but his own self-made illusions, and there’s nothing at his tongue, none of the drawling monotone that is usually so infuriating. Bel can taste satisfaction in the air, the dominance wrought just by the twist of his fingers in pale green hair, and it’s setting him on fire, aching hot and frantic in his veins. He takes a breath, can feel laughter in his throat dragging itself free, forming against his tongue as he thrusts forward -- and then he’s falling into white, his blood surging overfast through his veins, and it’s a moan over his tongue instead of a laugh. Everything is too fast, his heartbeat and his breathing and the heat in his blood, until he’s lost for the first few moments, sensation too much to fit inside the space of his head. It’s not until the leading edge of heat has dimmed that he can take a breath, that he can fit his heartbeat inside his own skin and force it into the shape of pleasure. He can still taste blood on his tongue, Fran’s lingering at the back of his throat and his own from teeth set too-hard against his lip, and when he collapses forward over the bed his mouth catches to leave a red imprint against the white of the sheets. After a moment he loosens his fingers, too, frees Fran’s hair from his dragging hold, and Fran gasps as if in relief, goes boneless and exhausted under him like the release was the last tension holding him together.

It’s a long time before either of them speak. Bel can feel his hair sticking to his forehead, the damp of sweat between his shoulders evaporating into sticky chill. Fran’s breathing steadies, the pound of his heart against Bel’s chest evens out, until when he takes an inhale Bel can feel the expectation drawing the sound long and tense.

“Senpai.” The drawl again, aching tension into Bel’s jaw as he grits his teeth against the irritation. “You’re crushing me.”

“I know,” Bel snaps against Fran’s shoulder. “Shut up, stupid frog.”

“Okay,” Fran says, sounding as bored and idly compliant as ever. Bel rolls his eyes, considers a more thorough response; another insult, maybe, or another attempt with the knives, now that Fran’s guard is down. But when he turns his head sideways he can see the print of his fingers on Fran’s skin, and the usual bite of frustration along his spine eases into a hiss of laughter instead, the sound to match the slide of his fingers as he fits his hand to the marks.

They fit too perfectly to be illusions.


End file.
